Heaven is a Street Called Baker
by astudyinfic
Summary: John has a hard time coping after Sherlock is gone. Sherlock doesn't even try after John is gone.


_Warnings: Major character death, suicide, uber-angst with a bit of fluff at the end, M/M relationship_

* * *

"SHERLOCK!"

There was falling, and then…

John gasped, sitting up in the bed, legs tangled in sheets, pajamas stuck to his body with sweat. A dream. It was just a dream. The same dream he has had every night for the week. Since St. Bart's. Since his whole life had fallen, along with his best friend.

The funeral had been the day before, though he had not attended. Too much press, too much publicity. He could not handle the thought of mourning in front of the world, a world that believed him to be an accomplice or victim. He was neither. He was a colleague. He was a flatmate. He was a friend. He was a man in love, though he had kept that secret locked away, in the farthest corners of his heart.

Was. What a horrible word. Not a word he ever wanted to use in connection with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was supposed to be his present and his future, not his past. Now John could see no future, and the present was just a bleak, empty nothingness, void of everything that had made his life since Afghanistan worth living.

Instead of the funeral, he went to see Ella. John did not even remember making the appointment and had half-heartedly wondered if he had Mycroft to thank for it. She had made him say the words. The words he had been avoiding.

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

Saying them made it real. Sherlock was not coming back. Baker Street would never again be witness to one of his inane experiments. It would never again be serenaded by violin music at 3 in the morning. In front of John was a cold and empty lifetime. How could he face it?

Lying there in bed, as the remnants of the dream slipped away, he came to a realization. He could not.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson wanted to leave early that morning, before there was any possibility that someone would catch them on camera. She had gone to the funeral, but wanted to go back and mourn in a more private atmosphere, or that is what she had claimed. John suspected that she was just making sure he was okay.

He had been up before sunrise, the dream keeping him from going back to sleep. He used that time to straighten up around the flat, write a few letters, and keep his mind off the dream that was haunting in him in his waking hours as well. When Mrs. Hudson finally called up to him, he had been up for hours, and was feeling better than he had in a week. He dropped the letters in the box, before following her out to the waiting cab. If everything went according to plan, Harry, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson would all receive their letters the next day. He could only hope that it would help.

The ride was quiet, with Mrs. Hudson sniffling beside him. They spent a few minutes at the gravesite, talking about some of Sherlock's more "endearing" habits, before she walked away, to give him the illusion of privacy. He knew she was still listening, so he continued with his charade:

"Um. Hm. You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..."

He came to attention, turned around, and walked back to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting, sobbing quietly. He found himself embraced in her small arms, and finally allowed himself to cry in front of someone for the first time all week. Eventually, they pulled themselves together, and walked back to the waiting cab.

"You know," he started awkwardly, "I'm not really ready to go back yet. I think I'm just going to stay and walk around for awhile. It feels good to be out of the flat, and it feels like he is close here. Are you okay going back by yourself?"

She looked disbelieving, but eventually nodded, "Well, if you are sure, dear. Do you want me to bring up some dinner later? I'm not your housekeeper, you know, but I could do it tonight, if it would help."

John felt guilty. He knew this would be hard on her, Greg, and Harry, maybe even Sarah, but he was confident in his decision. "No, thank you. I think I may go get takeaway. Something that we used to get together. It seems like a good way to remember him."

She hugged him again, before climbing in to the cab. He waved goodbye as the cab pulled away, and then walked the path back down to the gravestone. He slid down, back to the smooth black stone, until he was sitting on the moist ground.

"Sherlock," his voice caught. "I don't know why you did this. I don't know why you felt this was your only option. And I really don't know why you thought I was going to be okay after watching my best friend kill himself. There is no way that I will ever be okay again. Not until I can be with you. And since you had to go where you thought I could not follow, I will just have to do my best to meet you there."

He looked down at the gun that rested in his lap. He knew what he had to do.

"Good bye, Sherlock. See you soon."

He raised the gun to his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Sherlock was halfway back to the car, already thinking about where he needed to go next, when he heard the shot. Without a second thought, he bolted through the trees back in the direction he had come. He tried convincing himself that it wasn't John. Sure, he carried a gun, but what could he have needed it for here? Plus, Sherlock had seen John and Mrs. Hudson return to the cab. But there was something in the back of his head urging him to "Run! FASTER!"

As he approached the tombstone, he slowed to almost a stop. His breath caught and his heart was in his throat. John Watson had finally done what nothing but drugs had done prior. He had made Sherlock's brain stop. There were no deductions, no clues, nothing but white noise and screaming going on inside that massive brain.

Shakily, he approached his own grave, and knelt down beside the body of the one person he had ever loved. He had never told John his feelings, assuming that they were obvious. He reached out a hand, and touched John's face lovingly, a quiet despair falling over him as he realized that now nothing would be the same.

Was this how John had felt? No wonder he had chosen this option. If Sherlock had even considered the impact his fake suicide would have had, he may have done something different, but what? He could not see another option and now everything had gone wrong.

"John, John, John," he heard himself murmuring, and it wasn't until he reached a hand up to his face that he realized that he was crying. How was he supposed to go on? The plan had been to get rid of the threat to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John, and then return home to Baker Street. He would tell John everything, and they would go back to the way things had been, or maybe even better.

Now, there was nothing. He could get rid of the snipers, but then what. Live in Baker Street alone? No more tea materializing as if by magic. No more wooly jumpers tossed over the back of an armchair. No more giggling at crime scenes, or Chinese takeaway at 3AM. Unacceptable.

John was slumping over, in a rather uncomfortable looking position. If Sherlock' head had been clear, he would have realized that John was long past being concerned with comfort, but he wasn't thinking properly, and so he slid in behind his friend, ruined head cradled against his chest. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple.

When Mycroft and Molly had helped him fake his death, he had gotten a promise from his older brother to call off all surveillance. He could not be incognito if the British government was constantly looking over his shoulder. He was not sure if Mycroft was still trailing John or not, but if he was, his people would be here soon.

Grabbing his mobile, he sent off a quick message, before taking the gun from John's lap. If he was dead, really and truly dead, with no room for doubt, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be safe. It was too late for John, but Sherlock hoped, for the first time in his life, that he was wrong, that there was an afterlife, and that he would see John soon.

He followed in John's footsteps, and crossed the threshold into the unknown.

In the halls of the British government and a laboratory in St. Bart's, two mobiles vibrated, while at the same time, in parts unknown, a phone moaned suggestively. All three messages were identical:

_Without him, I have nothing._

* * *

John opened his eyes to find himself, not on the cold ground in the cemetery like he expected, but in his arm chair at 221B. Had that really happened or had he dreamt it? He wasn't sure. Everything was exactly the way he had left it that morning. So what was this? Did he fall asleep and dream he had taken his life, or did he really do it, and this is what comes after?

He bounded out of the chair, and down the hall to Sherlock's room, throwing the door open, and stopping short. No one was there. John's legs gave out under him and he crumpled to the carpet. He had been certain that Sherlock would be there, that everything would be okay because they would be together again. But here he was, alone at Baker Street once more. It must have been a dream. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the dread he felt deep down in his stomach.

Some time had passed when he heard the door slam downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson must be going out," he thought bitterly to himself.

"JOHN!"

He was on his feet and half down the stairs before he could even manage another thought. The voice. The voice he thought he would never hear again. It had happened. They were together. It was everything he could have hoped for.

They collided in the middle of the stairwell, hands grasping at whatever they could; arms, faces, hair. John buried his face in Sherlock's chest, pulling the taller man towards himself, and embracing him tightly. They stood there, clutching each other for several long moments, before pulling back and asking at the same time, "Why?"

John's face showed his confusion, "What do you mean, why? Because you left me. You jumped off a bloody building IN FRONT OF ME, and expected it to be okay. Nothing was going to be okay after that Sherlock, didn't you know that?" The tears were starting to fall, but he couldn't be chuffed to stop them this time.

Sherlock's face melted into sympathy and guilt, "John," he murmured, raising his hand to run his fingers through the other man's hair, "you could have waited. I would have come back to you. I just needed time."

"Come back? Sherlock, you're mad. There is no coming back from death. Not even for you."

The guilt took over predominance on Sherlock's face, "But there is from faking your death," he stated quietly, looking down, afraid to look John in the eyes.

"Faking your? Sherlock, if you faked your death, how are you here?" He shook his head. "I think I need to sit down." He took Sherlock's hand and led him back to the flat, to the couch where he had spent so much time before.

They sat, facing each other for a long minute before Sherlock took a deep breath and explained everything, from what happened on the roof of St. Bart's to the events that morning at the cemetery. By the time he was finished, John was shaking, and a half hysterical part of his brain registered that he probably could use an orange blanket.

"You mean to tell me, that you were alive. You were going to come back. And the only reason you are here is because of what I did. Sherlock, why? Why would you do it? You could have gone back to your life. It would have been one less sniper to worry about. Why?" He realized he was sounding crazed, but he could not help it.

Sherlock grabbed his face and forced John to look him in the eyes, "John Watson, you listen to me. There was no more life for me. Without you, there was nothing. You were all that mattered. I love you. Do you not understand? If it was a choice of a long life alone, or the chance that I could be with you again, there was no choice. There has not been a choice for me since the day you walked in to the lab with Stamford."

And finally, finally, Sherlock closed the distance and kissed John. It started gently, but grew more heated as John kissed back, licking his way in to Sherlock's mouth, lacing his fingers into the ink black curls.

When they came up for breath, John asked, shyly, "How does going to bed sound to you?"

Sherlock smiled, "Like heaven."

* * *

**Epilogue**

"We're a bit 'Romeo and Juliet', don't you think?" John states simply, setting Sherlock's tea on the table behind him. He carried his own cuppa to his armchair, where he settled in with a book from the shelf.

Sherlock continued to stare out the window, "Except for the part about being teenagers in a 3 day relationship."

"Well, yes, except for that," John giggled a little, before turning back to his novel.

The afternoon continued in a comfortable silence, punctuated occasionally by Sherlock's violin.

"Do you regret it?" the consulting detective asked quietly, after a few hours. John rose from his chair and walked to stand in front of his lover.

"Which part? You faking your death? Taking my own life? You taking yours? The fact that we will always be together here in Baker Street? Because, at this point there isn't anything else I could ask for then to be here with you." He rose up on his toes and kissed Sherlock gently. "You have to know that I will always choose you. Why? Do you regret it? Would you rather have lived to old age? Or were you hoping for white clouds and harps?"

Sherlock smirked at him. "You know my answer to that," he murmured before kissing John once again. "As for the white clouds and harps? Boring."


End file.
